Every other summer during my childhood, our family of six drove from Dayton to Reading, Mass.,
to visit our maternal grandmother.

On a living-room wall in her house hung a large portrait of her father-in-law (and my
great-grandfather), Matthew Cummings. Next to the picture was a proclamation from the city of Cork,
Ireland, that — in appreciation of his generosity — granted him the freedom of the city and, if
needed, its support.

Grammie never missed the opportunity to share some family history. She liked to tell the story
of how an orphaned 15-year-old Matthew left the family farm in Bandon, County Cork; stowed away on
a ship leaving the port of Cobh; and landed in Boston in 1875.

He found work in a quarry at $1.50 a day; later became an apprentice at an ironworks; and at age
63, after a varied career, founded a construction company that built many Boston schools, including
the high school that my mother attended.

From his early years — and later as president of the Ancient Order of Hibernians — he saved
money and sent it to Cork in ardent support of the cause of freedom, inspiring the
proclamation.

Last year, eight members of our family traveled to Ireland, where we fervently hoped to see the
Cummins (the original spelling) family farm.

Unfortunately, Mom — who had visited there in the 1970s — passed away four years ago without
leaving an address or a phone number for her cousin Laurence, grandnephew of Matthew and patriarch
of the farm family.

In Ireland, we had a knowledgeable driver and tour guide, Eric, who knew how much we wanted to
see the farm.

Halfway through our trip — after visiting the restored King John’s Castle in Limerick; exploring
the Ring of Kerry; hiking to the Cliffs of Moher; and heading to the port of Cobh, from which the
Titanic sailed — we found ourselves in Cork.

Through his connections, Eric got us to the West Cork Heritage Centre in Bandon — where we met
an elderly gentleman who listened with interest to what we remembered of our great-grandfather’s
story.

After we told him all we knew, he left to make a phone call, then returned with the news that
Laurence’s family was eager to welcome us.

He gave us simple directions that would get us to the farm in 15 minutes — that is, for one who
knows the lay of the land.

We spent an hour driving around the countryside on nameless one-lane roads, mistaking Leary’s
pub on the left for Leary’s garage on the right, passing an unmarked turnoff, stopping occasionally
and just generally feeling lost.

We were about to give up when we saw two boys playing outside a big, modern house at the
intersection of two country lanes. My brother-in-law jumped out of the van to ask whether they knew
where old Mr. Cummins lives.

“Surely!” said one of the boys, smiling. “Go down this road and past the field of cows. There’s
a blue car in the driveway.”

We passed not one but five fields of cows and saw no blue car.

Certain that we had passed it, Eric pulled over and stopped an approaching car. The driver told
him to turn the van around, that she would take us there.

The Cummins farmhouse stands back from the road a bit, so we might be excused for not seeing the
blue car. Yet there it was — as was the family we so much wanted to meet.

Greeting us were cousin Laurence, 82; his sweet wife, Mary; their son Laurence, who represents
the eighth generation to run the farm; two daughters, Joan and Noirin; and a couple of
grandchildren, including the boy who had given us directions.

We needed well more than 15 minutes to reach the warm hugs they showered on their American
relatives, but the family gathering and stories about previous generations of Cumminses proved well
worth every wrong turn on the rural roads of County Cork.

As we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on Monday, we’ll toast our distant family with a pint of
Guinness, picture the smiling faces of our cousins and remember the beautiful vista of the Irish
countryside from the old family farm.